clawing my way through to you
by HaneGaNai
Summary: In the end, it's not really that much of a revelation. - It takes harpies and a night in the hospital for Stiles to realize what has been months in the making.
1. Chapter 1

In the end, it's not really that much of a revelation.

The setting is familiar by now: books and papers strewn all over the table, half-empty cups of coffee long since gone cold. There are takeout containers and snack wrappers littering the remaining space, with Stiles' and Peter's laptops perched among the mess.

Just your regular research session. It's like a slumber party, but with less popcorn and a much higher probability of death.

Pouring over books, searching through forums and blogs filtering out valuable pieces of information, double and triple checking when the results seem to contradict one another – it's tiring, but never boring. Especially with Peter around.

At first it was out of desperation that they asked the ex-alpha for help, short on hand with a clan of vampires scouring the streets of Beacon Hills. They were wary of betrayal even if Stiles stayed back to look over the man's shoulder and confirm every information given. Somehow they ended up victorious and relatively unscathed thanks to all the tips Stiles and Peter managed to find.

Things just escalated from there. They ended up asking Peter for help more and more often, inviting the werewolf in, keeping a close eye on his activities. Peter wasn't exactly a team player. He rarely joined the heat of the battle, refused to help if he thought the issue at hand was a waste of his time and held their failures over their heads.

Time proved though that Peter enjoyed keeping them alive to torment more than the thought of eviscerating them. Or at least that was what Stiles liked to think.

The teenager noticed when all the jabs the werewolf never failed to throw at them started changing in nature, when their aim wasn't to cause just as much pain as before, when they became more playful. The transition from Peter the Backstabber to Peter the Creepy Uncle took months and Stiles was there to catalogue every single difference in the way the zombie wolf acted around them.

For the most part, it was with the safety of his friends in mind that he kept a close watch on Peter whether while researching, at pack meetings or in the fray. He wanted to be prepared for the eventual claw in the back, but it never came. Stiles wasn't sure if the reason Peter changed his approach was the fact that the pack was stabilized and much stronger in their unity, or if he simply got bored of evil plots and failure and decided that it was much more fun to just stick around. Even if just for now.

Either way it was Stiles that benefited from it the most. With Peter more forthcoming with answers, offering knowledge out of his own free will Stiles could satiate his need to know more and more. Not all of his questions received answers, but the unanswered were fewer each time. At times when the werewolf grew tired with the interrogation he simply lent Stiles some of his books and boy weren't those eye-opening. Some of them made him unable to sleep.

They became pack researchers, the tacticians. Schemers really. Bound together by intelligence and their ability to concoct plots with quite a high success rate when combined. The pack relayed on them in times of distress.

Though right now it was Stiles' turn to be distressed.

He pushed himself away from the table, feeling both exhausted and just about to explode from frustration. They've been at it almost two days, commandeering the loft to themselves while the rest of their group of misfits run the perimeter, and they still had no clue how to find the damn harpies. There was no scent, no tracks, no nothing.

"Dammit, why couldn't they just stick to stealing food from people like in the myths?" Stiles groaned rubbing his hands over his face, trying to wake himself up a little. All the reading he did that day resulted in nothing other than a headache.

He got up from his seat and moved over to the couch, flopping down on it gracelessly and almost landing on Peter. The werewolf simply lifted the book he had been reading and readjusted to accommodate the sprawled teenager.

"I don't get it," Stiles continued, shuffling around until he could prop his head on Peter's thigh, "They're half-women half-birds, but somehow the only time someone actually gets a glimpse of one of them is while they attack." He went on. Peter made a small sound and tugged lightly on Stiles' hair indicating that he was still listening even as he continued with his book. The older man knew by now when Stiles simply needed a sounding board to get his thoughts in order, just as well as to when to stop him from talking in circles and only ever ending in riling himself up.

"What happens to them before and after?" Stiles wondered aloud. "Can they shift? Do they vanish into thin air? Get blown with the wind-" He sat up so suddenly that were it not for super reflexes Peter's book would out of his hands and on the floor at the moment.

"What is it?" The werewolf asked putting away his book and watching Stiles pace rummage through all the papers they've gathered. He sounded curious, no doubt knowing that Stiles found something.

Stiles turned to look at the ex-alpha over his shoulder, ceasing in his search for a minute. "I think I've seen somewhere, that their name can be translated as 'strong gust of wing'. Maybe that's it? Maybe they come in as the wind?"

"That could be it." Peter agreed joining him at the table. "Hasn't one of the witnesses said something about a strong gust of wind pushing her away from the victim?"

"Now that you mention it," Stiles reached for a folder with a copy of the police report. Cuing his dad in on the creatures of the night Stiles hung out with came with a lot of perks. He skimmed over the text and tapped the relevant part with his finger. Then he deflated, sudden rush of excitement at finally finding something gone, because how does one track wind? "This doesn't give us anything. It still means one of us had to be there to even feel them about to attack. We can't really follow the wind around."

"You're obviously right." Peter's hand settles on the back on his neck and squeezed once, gentle. "But it still gives us something to look out for."

Stiles looked over at the man watching him pull out his phone and dial Derek's number. Peter's eyes were on him as he relayed the news, full with something that Stiles thought was pride. It made something warm and content settle in Stiles' stomach.

Peter looked at him like that sometimes. When he caught onto something the man implied before anyone else in the pack did. When he surprised Peter with a piece of knowledge. When he came out of a fight unscathed. When he outsmarted one of the Betas at training. When he solved a puzzle. When he stood up for himself.

When Peter taught him how to cover his tracks and spent three hours looking for him in the woods.

Indulgent smiles were a thing too, replacing annoyance and snapping from months ago. A fond quirk to Peter's lips as Stiles went off on a tangent, hands moving wildly as he talked. A pat on the head, a fingers tightening briefly on Stiles' shoulder or neck. An arm around his shoulders while they sat together at movie nights or at the diner. A guiding hand on the small of his back when they walked together somewhere, steering him through the crowds or woods. Fingers brushing thorough his hair when they were close.

Stiles never really thought to question it.

They did all the research they could do so they were sent to patrol a part of the preserve the next day. Derek and Boyd were on the other side with the rest of the pack getting some well-deserved rest. Stiles needed to sleep some as well, but he knew there was no way he'd be able to after the latest attack.

The harpies went for a kid the night before: an eleven year-old walking his dog. Isaac happening to stumble on the scene was a total fluke, but his appearance was enough to save the boy. Stiles knew feeling guilty about that was unreasonable, that he couldn't have done anything to help or prevent the attack. That the research he was doing at the time was needed. He couldn't help it though; he refused to sit back with his head in a book.

Which was how he ended up stumbling over roots with a baseball bat in hand and Peter at his side.

They made a good team. Stiles knew by now what battles he could handle and when to step back and let fangs and fury take care of the mess. In exchange, Peter hardly ever protested when Stiles wanted to join into the fray, even backed him up on more than one occasion when the others tried to keep him away. Stiles trusted Peter with his safety, trusted the older man to know when he could take care of himself and when he needed saving. They've done this dozens of times already; they knew how to work together.

It was just their luck that they actually managed to find the damn harpies and got to fight alongside again.

There were three of them in the clearing, hovering above ground and poised to attack. And they were even uglier than Isaac's description conveyed.

The avian parts of their bodies resembled those of golden eagles, just a few times bigger. They actually looked like they were Stiles' height, but it was difficult to judge with them constantly moving. Their heads and torsos were distinctly human, but somewhat distorted, hideous faces with sharp eyes and mouths open to shriek.

Stiles just managed to pull out his phone and was about to call in reinforcements when the first one lounged to attack. He had to drop to the ground to avoid the sharp talons dropping his phone in the process. Peter was twice as occupied, already shifted and fending off the other harpies. The werewolf was powerful, already past the initial weakness that came with his resurrection, but he wouldn't be able to hold out long with as fast opponents as the harpies were proving to be.

"Stiles, we need help!" Peter called as he swiped at one of the harpies and narrowly avoiding the claws of the other one.

"I'm trying!"

Stiles swung his bat at the monster flying at him and managed to land a hit to its shoulder. When the harpy flew away to avoid another hit he ran for his phone and sent a hasty mass-text. Taking his eyes off of the monstrous bird-woman for too long wouldn't end well.

The moment he slid his phone into his pocket he had to duck to save his head. The harpy flew past him and up above the clearing, clearly assessing the scene: Stiles on one side, panting and with his bat ready at hand, and Peter on the other still mostly unscathed, but preoccupied with his share of feathery creatures.

When Stiles' harpy dove towards the ground shrieking angrily it took Stiles seconds to realize it's trajectory.

It was instinct to jump between Peter and the monster, covering the werewolf's back when he was too busy with the other two to notice what was happening. He didn't even realize he was running towards Peter until he was just there, baseball bat dropped in his haste and his body shielding Peter's. There was no hesitation in the movement, no second-thoughts as if he'd done it a thousand times before. All he wanted was for Peter to be safe, all he needed is the werewolf to be unhurt.

Stiles didn't even register the pain until he was falling to the ground, Peter calling his name.

The last thing he hears before darkness takes over is an air splitting roar.


	2. Chapter 2

When Stiles woke up the next day in a hospital bed his first thought after _huh, I'm alive _and _fuck, that hurts_ was to ask about Peter. And wasn't that telling.

Both his dad and Scott were there with him, both exhausted and a bit worse for the wear from hours spent in uncomfortable chairs. There was no real danger once they got him to the hospital and the blood loss was tamed. The doctors worried about severed nerves and torn muscles, but it seemed the harpy didn't manage to get her claws in deep enough for that. He would be getting some badass scars out of this, but otherwise it was all down to neat rows of stitched coloring his back under the bandages.

The doctors were told Stiles had a close encounter with a bear while being careless in the woods. Deaton even backed the story up when he dropped by to hand Melissa a jar of some gooey salve to speed up the healing process.

Before Stiles got to ask about what exactly happened back there in the woods after he passed out Scott was already filling him in.

"All of us came as fast as we could after we got your text, Danny helping track you down. Derek and Boyd reached you first, obviously, since they were closest, but it was already over by then."

"What do you mean?" Stiles asked trying to sit up, a wince of pain his only accomplishment where he managed to pull at his stitches. He flopped down to his side and resigned himself to lying down still.

"Peter snapped when you went down, it seems, he practically tore them apart. I mean, we've all seen a lot in the past few years, but what was left of the harpies…" Scott visibly winced. "Bloodshed and carnage."

"What about Peter?" Stiles asked when his friend didn't continue the story right away. Scott shot him a brief, knowing smile before he continued.

"Derek said that when he got there Peter was still wolfed out and crouching over you. He was still trying to get Peter to step away and free you from under him when me and Isaac got there, but Peter kept growling and snapping at us whenever anyone got too close. It looks like he lost control and went completely wolf. It took three of us to pull him away from you and tackle him down.

Stiles' looked up shocked and Scott nodded slightly, understanding his reaction. Peter was by far the most experienced of them all, he had perfect control of his wolf. So him losing himself like that was really something.

He made as to sit up again and managed it this time with the help of his dad and Scott. He couldn't really listen to this lying down. He was way too worried about the oldest werewolf.

"He hasn't calmed down yet, has he?" Stiles asked. "Is that why he's not-" He cut himself off before saying anymore. Though judging by the looks both his dad and Scott were giving him neither missed what he was about to say.

"We had to knock him out so we could take him somewhere safe and contained until he calmed down in case he followed you here. Doc helped us put him in a mountain ash circle, but Peter is still lashing out at us whenever we get close. He's practically feral."

"You locked him up?" Stiles demanded pitching forward, but his dad held him back with a hand to his chest. His anger was perhaps uncalled for**,** but he was worried about Peter. He couldn't imagine how horrible it must be for the werewolf to be trapped yet again.

"We didn't really have much choice, Stiles." Scott placated. "It was just as much for his safety as it was for everybody else's. We couldn't really bring him here, could we? He could hurt somebody. He could hurt _you_. Hell, he broke Boyd's leg in two places and dislocated my shoulder when we were trying to drag him away from you."

And Stiles knew he was right, but he knew that if Peter hadn't regained his senses by now, suffering restraint would only make it worse. More than anything else though, Stiles wanted him here, at his side, safe and snarky. Chewing his ear off for being an idiot and getting himself hurt. Scolding and demanding they train more as soon as Stiles is free from stitches. Looking at him with fondness even when he tried to sound stern.

Because that was them, that was how they were together and maybe Stiles should have thought about this sooner. He should have realized how dependent he was on the werewolf, how close they had become. But he'd been in love with Lydia for so long that even though he was content with them being friends right now, the sheer possibility of falling for someone else never crossed his mind.

With Peter… They still bitched and sassed each other, they called each other names and fought over ideas and unnecessary risks. It was easy. It was effortless and uncomplicated and everything he and Lydia could never be.

With Lydia it felt nothing like this.

It took him a better part of an hour to placate and beg and argue with his dad about it, Scott wisely staying out of the conversation, but in the end Stiles wouldn't have to spend another day in the hospital. He had to make all kinds of promises and consent to a few greasy meals, but the moment he got out of bed he couldn't care less about those, each step leading him to Peter.

They heard howling before Scott even parked the Jeep, the pained undertone urging Stiles on even as he had to wait for his friend to help him get out of the car. Walking wasn't that bad of an ordeal as long as he kept his back as rigid as possible so he didn't need much assistance entering the clinic. He headed straight for the back office lead by howling and sounds of scuffle.

All the noise seemed to stop though once he stepped into the room. Only Derek and Peter were inside, the Alpha leaning back against the far wall with his arms crossed. Derek spared him only a moment, nodding at him in welcome, before returning his attention to the other side of the office.

Wolfed out Peter was a very rare sight. In all the time he knew the werewolf he could count the times Stiles saw him like this on the fingers of a single hand. Sideburns, a distinct lack of eyebrows, sharp fangs making it difficult for the wolf to close him mouth completely. Most of the time the change made Peter look vicious, wild and dangerous. Intimidating if not downright terrifying. Right in this moment though, he looked pitiful, _wrecked_. Stiles guessed it was all on him. His normally pristine clothes were torn, with his shirt holding on by threads. Splatters of blood and dirt colored his skin as well as the rest of him, his hair wild and untidy. So very not Peter.

Electric blue eyes tracked every movement Stiles made as he stopped at the center of the room to take the situation in. Clawed hands pressed against the invisible barrier and strained as if Peter tried to push through, the wolf sniffing audibly, scenting. The sound Peter made then was somewhat painful in its relief, but Stiles scent and presence weren't enough to help him turn back.

Stiles understood that, understood the need to reassure oneself via touch, through more than just a couple of senses since, with the life they led, it was all too easy to get tricked. He moved closer in steady, measured steeps.

"He started thrashing as soon as he felt you close." Derek supplied from his corner.

"Has he been like this the whole time?" He asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the elder werewolf staring back at him.

"Most of it. Calmed down a bit somewhere around noon, mostly because he exhausted himself with all the flinging and ramming into the mountain ash barrier. Deaton tried to give him a sedative, but we couldn't get close enough to hold him still."

Stiles took Derek's words in and wondered how it came to this. Since when was he so important to Peter? Substantial enough that the sight of him wounded and down caused him to lose his steadily built walls, control dropping down so far he couldn't regain it on his own so far. Peter prided himself in being always able to keep his cool, Stiles knew.

He wondered, but it was blindingly obvious that whatever they were, whatever they shared had been enough for Stiles to risk his life for Peter and more than enough for the werewolf to lose himself at the very thought of Stiles dying.

The others had to be aware of it too. Perhaps even before either Stiles or Peter knew. Scott never asked where to take him after they left the hospital, going straight for the clinic. Derek didn't question his presence. Even his dad didn't seem surprised when Stiles kept asking about Peter, but had looked almost amused.

All he needed now was to bring Peter back.

He moved as close to the barrier as he could, barely nudging the ash line with the tips of his chucks. Two inches of space were all that separated him from Peter.

Slowly, ever so slowly he reached out with one hand and brushed his fingers over the side of Peter's face until he was cupping a furry cheek in his palm. Peter made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whine and turned to nose at Stiles' hand, capturing Stiles' wrist when the teenager jerked slightly at the ticklish sensation.

Before Stiles realized what was happening he got pulled inside the mountain ash circle and trapped in Peter's hold. He heard a scuffle behind him, Scott's panicked voice calling for him but he threw an open palm behind him wordlessly asking them to back off. He knew Peter would never consciously hurt him, the fact that he was more than human at the moment meant only that he might not be as gentle about manhandling as he usually was.

Stiles found himself kneeling on the floor with Peter pressing them close together. The werewolf's arms were firm around him, yet somehow still mindful of his bandaged back which Stiles took as a good sign.

"Hey, creeper wolf." He said softly, patting gently at Peter's head where it was stuck in the juncture of Stiles' neck and shoulder, the wolf inhaling greedily. "I'm fine, see? I'm okay, you can turn back."

Peter kept nuzzling into his skin, a purr-like noise rumbling through his chest, but when Stiles caught his face in both hands he could still feel coarse hair prickling his palms, more so than Peter's usual stubble would. He couldn't really lean away with Peter holding them so close together, instead he tried pushing the wolf away, coaxing him with gentle nudges.

"Peter." Stiles called for him, voice still gentle, encouraging. "C'mon, you beast, look at me."

After a moment of repeating the wolf's name and trying to pry Peter's face away from his throat, the werewolf finally looked at him; brilliant blue eyes intense as they roamed over his face, taking him in.

"Hey, hi. There you are." Stiles laughed a bit overwhelmed with the situation at hand and, without really thinking it through, moved in swiftly and kissed Peter on the nose, only to have the werewolf turn back human in his arms.

There wasn't even any transition. One moment Stiles was rubbing his thumbs over hairy cheekbones, the next a fully human Peter was sitting in front of him, looking shocked and confused.

That expression on Peter's face was so uncommon and actually novel that Stiles couldn't help the laughter bubbling in his chest. They were whole, both back to the present and he felt so ridiculously happy that even the pain caused by his guffaws couldn't dampen it in that moment.

He collapsed against Peter's chest trying to catch his breath and all but purred when Peter gathered him closer, Stiles practically straddling his lap. A strong, gentle hand pressed Stiles' face into Peter's neck, cradling the back of his head.

Peter's earthy scent was comforting, even combined with old blood and sweat. Completely unashamed of the needy little sound that escaped him, Stiles pushed even closer into the wolf, arms wound tightly around the man's back.

"You idiot," Peter growled, his voice somewhat raspy. "You are not allowed to do that ever again."

"I won't. I promise." He mumbled into Peter's skin well aware that the werewolf can hear his heart skip on the lie. Stiles had no doubts he'd do it again if it came to it.

Peter's hold on him became almost painful at that, his voice hushed. Pained. "I'll kill you myself if you do."

"Okay. Okay." Stiles placated and pushed at the werewolf's chest when his hold on him became a bit much for his wounded back.

Peter relented and loosened his embrace enough for Stiles to lean away and catch his gaze. Fear lingered in Peter's eyes, terror and a bit of anger and a whole lot of relief. And Stiles _knew_ he'd jump between him and anything that would dare hurt him in a heartbeat again and again. He'd throw himself to the proverbial, well, wolves to keep him safe and whole. But even more than that he'd do whatever it took to protect the both of them, because all he ever wanted to for Peter was happiness and, ah. Love.

Peter knew that and felt the same, he was sure, if only by the way the man leaned into his touch when Stiles cupped his face in his palms once again. Stiles marveled at how easy it was, how they just fell into it without a thought.

Peter still looked at him as if he couldn't believe Stiles was really there, the werewolf's hands bunched in Stiles' shirt. So he kissed him. Hard and long and biting, unmindful of their surroundings and possible witnesses, content with the way Peter didn't lag behind.

They kissed hungrily, desperate and affirming; then slower once they had a taste, languid and searching. They fit together like a jigsaw puzzle, matching so well that Stiles had to break apart way too soon, before it went too far. His back wouldn't be able to handle it and he was sure Peter was tired enough for the both of them.

"Peter," He gasped to which the wolf in question reacted with a self-satisfied smirk. "We're not having sex for the first time on the floor of the veterinary clinic with Derek and Scott watching." He admonished, certain that his face was bright red.

Peter just laughed at that, a full belly laugh. Call him a sap, but it was the most beautiful sound in the world, all about relief and happiness and warmth.


	3. Bonus

One of his father's demands, when Stiles pleaded his early release from the hospital, was that after he helped Peter return to normal he'd return back home. Stiles didn't argue that then and wouldn't argue it now either with the way his back itched and ached, stitches pulled with almost every movement. Painkillers could only do that much.

With the way his dad reacted, or actually did not react much, to Stiles caring about the creeper wolf so much, Stiles hoped he wouldn't mind that bed rest in his case involved a werewolf full body pillow.

Peter was a pleasant source of warmth in front of him, his back curved slightly and firmly pressed against Stiles' front. Stiles had been pretty surprised when Peter lay down in front of him, between Stiles and the door facing the room, and practically pulled Stiles to mold against his back.

Neither of them said a word, hell, the look Peter threw at the little surprised sound he released made it clear that there would be sharp teeth near sensitive places involved had he actually said anything. And Stiles, Stiles knew Peter well enough to just chuckle softly and press them as close together as he could. All to somewhat cover up his rapidly beating heart.

Because this was Peter at his most vulnerable, this was Peter silently asking for comfort and reassurance, something Stiles never thought he'd see. This was Peter trusting him with his life, baring his neck for him and wasn't that a heady feeling.

So Stiles laid a soft kiss on the offered flesh and nuzzled in inhaling deeply. Peter still smelt of blood and sweat and earth, but it was a comforting smell. Just as the heat radiating from the werewolf's body.

Wounding an arm around Peter, palm pressed above Peter's heart, Stiles wrapped himself around his wolf as much as he could while still being mindful of his wounds and fell asleep feeling safe and at home.


End file.
